28/04/2026
Meet Parker.
Parker is a Labrador. A full-sized, enthusiastic, zero-self-awareness Labrador.
Parker also believes—deeply, spiritually, unshakably—that he is a lap dog.
Not like a lap dog. Not sometimes a lap dog.
A lap dog.
You sit down? That’s consent.
Before you’ve even adjusted yourself, Parker is already mid-air, launching with the confidence of an Olympic gymnast and the accuracy of a sack of potatoes.
THUD.
All 30+ kilos of him lands directly across your thighs, compressing your internal organs into places they’ve never been before.
He sighs. Content. Like this is exactly where he belongs.
You, meanwhile, can’t feel your legs and are quietly wondering if this is how you go.
“Parker… off.”
Parker hears: “Parker… stay exactly where you are, you perfect angel.”
He adjusts. Which somehow makes him heavier.
You attempt to push him off. He leans in. Because clearly you need more comfort.
Guests come over.
You give the warning: “He thinks he’s a lap dog.”
They laugh. Oh, they laugh.
“He’s fine! I love dogs!”
Parker appears.
They’re still smiling… until he commits.
Full launch. No hesitation. Straight onto their lap like he’s been invited.
There’s a moment. A brief flicker of realisation.
Then impact.
You watch their soul leave their body slightly as Parker settles in, face inches from theirs, breathing like he’s just run a marathon.
“Isn’t he lovely?” you say, already knowing it’s too late.
Parker doesn’t just sit on laps. He claims them.
You try to stand up? Absolutely not. That’s his chair now. You live there. Accept it.
If you shift, he readjusts. If you breathe differently, he rebalances.
He has the gravitational pull of a small moon.
And the best bit?
If you stop stroking him for even half a second, he nudges you. Firmly.
Repeatedly. Like: “Excuse me. You’ve stopped your job.”
At night, he attempts the same routine on the sofa.
There could be acres of space. Entire cushions available.
No.
He chooses the exact spot where your spine needs to be, then slowly melts into you until you’re basically wearing a Labrador.
You wake up unable to move, one arm dead, Parker snoring happily, legs twitching as he dreams about… more laps, presumably.
Because in Parker’s world, there are only two types of furniture:
Things he can sit on
Things he will eventually sit on
And people?
People are just warm, slightly fragile cushions that occasionally complain but ultimately accept their fate.